


Nine Songs and a Serenade

by Skew



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skew/pseuds/Skew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hillbilly's guitar is his constant companion, a keepsake and a totem, and what's more, a way of saying things he won't or can't say any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Songs and a Serenade

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fic I ever wrote for Pacific fandom, originally posted to LJ in September 2010. This version is slightly edited for style, but it's mostly the same.

A single note rings out, cutting high and clear across the howl of the ocean wind.

"Hey sergeant, sing us a song!" someone calls up from the great sweaty khaki mess of men slumped against each other on the deck, up to where Hillbilly Jones sits perched at the very tip of the bow. He looks down at his squad, and smiles.

"You got it," he says.

People tell him he's got the soul of a musician, and he doesn't know about that, but he does know his old guitar feels like it's a part of his own body, and playing her comes to him as easy as breathing. He doesn't have to look to find the right chords, just puts his hands to the strings and starts to play an old familiar tune.

" _Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home -_ "

They're a long way from home. Hillbilly's been in the Corps the best part of four years now, and out on the oceans for most of it, but this wasn't like the other times. They're steaming down through the South Pacific, past the equator line, into the half of the world where February is summer and the sun beats down hot enough to fry the hairs on the back of your neck.

He hadn't got any grand ideas of heroism in his head when he signed up to be a Marine. He enlisted for one reason, and one reason only – there was a depression on and a big family in dire need of feeding, and of the few jobs available to an undereducated boy from the hill country, the military far and away paid the best. He'd accepted from the start that it might one day mean being sent into combat, but he figured he'd deal with that when he came to it.

Now that time had come and his plan so far was to wing it. He'd take each day as it came, not worry about tomorrow, and if it all got too bad, he'd just play a happy tune.

There was no question that the guitar had to come with him. He'd seen her in the window of a music shop back home, and it'd been love at first sight. For months he'd begged and pleaded to be bought that guitar, until at last he'd given up hope – and then, on the morning of his thirteenth birthday, he'd woken up to find her lying at the end of his bed, a bow tied around her neck. It sounds a little sad when said out loud, but he's never felt so happy in all his life as that moment when he first took her in his hands. 

She's been his faithful companion ever since. He'd taken her to training to keep him from getting homesick; taken her to Puerto Rico and Hawaii and Guam to keep the fellas entertained. Now she's heading off to war with him, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"And if you get there before I do, cut a hole and pull me through," he sings, closing his eyes and letting the sound of his guitar and the men's voices wash over him. Maybe it's ironic to be singing about home when you're heading far away, and perhaps there's some dark humour in talking about heaven when you're about to face down hell, but Hillbilly's never let a little situational inappropriateness get in the way of a good song.

He can't ever be fully prepared for what's ahead, but he's got his girl, and he's got his boys, and with that, nothing can touch him.

 

*

 

Sunset over the ocean, palm trees waving and the scent of coconut wafting on the breeze. It'd be beautiful if it weren't for the corpses bobbing in the water.

Hillbilly sits on the shore with his back against a tree, enjoying the first chance in a long while to just sit down and be still. It's all been go go go since they landed on Guadalcanal, right in at the heart of the storm without any time to stop and stand back and go _what the fuck is this?_ All the training in the world can't prepare you for what combat's actually like – it's like all of reality is screaming in your face and every sense is burning itself out trying to report what's out there. At some point it had all got too much and he'd gone into this trance state, like he'd come unstuck from himself and was floating up in the forest canopy as his body down below dodged bullets and mowed down attackers like it was just another day. Now it's all over and he's far too aware of his physical self, every muscle aching and his fingers swollen and clumsy in the heat. He just hopes that that's it for today, and that he might be allowed to sleep through the night.

He's brought his guitar down to the shore, of course. She was a bit scuffed to begin with, and she's acquired a few scrapes since the landing, but she's made it this far. She's a totem, in a way – if the guitar can survive, so can he.

He settles her across his lap and strums the first few notes that come to mind; a few fall in a familiar order and he decides on a song.

" _This land is my land, this land is your land, from California, to the New York island. From the redwood forest, to the Gulf Stream waters, this land was made for you and me._ "

He sings low and soft, a smile on his face as he imagines the locations listed in the song. He's not seen many of them – hadn't so much as left his home state until he enlisted – but he yearns for them nevertheless. They've only been on Guadalcanal a day or two, but it feels like forever since his feet have touched American soil.

"We're a long way from that land," a voice comes from behind him. Hillbilly stops and turns to see Lieutenant Haldane leant against a tree, watching him. Of all the officers in K Company right now, Hillbilly reckons he likes Haldane the best. Usually, greenhorn lieutenants not long out of college are nothing but trouble, more interested in getting stars on their shoulders than doing right by their company, but Haldane's different. He works hard and he doesn't put on airs and graces. That's Hillbilly's kind of officer.

"Evening, sir," he says, shifting round to face him. "I didn't see you there."

Haldane smiles.

"I heard reports of a wandering minstrel about these parts and went to see if they were true," he says. He strolls closer and leans against Hillbilly's tree, looking down at him.

Hillbilly chuckles, maybe a touch shyly. It's not often officers talk to him asides from to bark orders.

"Minstrel? I don't know, it's been a long time since I saw any princesses," he said. "Wandering, though, that's true enough. This old guitar's come halfway round the world with me." He gives her side an affectionate pat. "She's my baby. Where I go, she goes."

"So the men tell me," Haldane nods. "They say the music is one of the best things about K Company. Nobody mentioned you were a Woody Guthrie fan, though."

Hillbilly laughs. "Never met a guitar-pickin' hillbilly who wasn't, sir." He patted her side again. "I was thinking of writing 'this machine kills fascists' on the side of her, but I think it'd go better on my rifle."

"Don't you think that's a little literal?" Haldane says, giving him a lopsided smile. Hillbilly shrugs.

"Metaphors don't get you very far out here."

He idly runs his fingers across the strings again, and sings a few more lines.

" _I roamed and rambled, and I followed her footsteps, to the sparkling sands, of her diamond deserts -_ "

Normally, he doesn't care for having people standing up close and watching over his shoulder while he plays, but he feels strangely at ease around Haldane. He's nearly to the end of the verse when Haldane speaks up again.

"Don't," he says, and he actually sounds a little choked.

Hillbilly looks up, frowning.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

Haldane stares out to sea, a wistful look in his eyes.

"You're making me homesick, sergeant."

"Sorry, sir," Hillbilly says, and flashes him a mischievous grin. "I can make it a bit more topical, if you'd prefer. _This land is their land, it should be our land; the generals sent us to this distant far land, to shoot at Japs and catch malaria – this land'll be the death of you and me._ "

Haldane breaks into laughter, proper full-throated laughter that catches him off guard and has him hanging on to the tree so as not to keel over. Hillbilly grins ear to ear, feeling rather proud at making such a consummate professional crack up so bad.

"I take it back," Haldane says, shaking his head. "Keep singing the original, it's much better for morale."

Hillbilly nods, still grinning.

"Duly noted, sir."

 

*

 

In defeat, the Japanese leave all kinds of supplies behind them, and all are eagerly taken – there's clean socks and skivvies, trunks that actually keep out the rain, flick-knives and knuckledusters and, on one memorable occasion, a collection of obscene lithographs depicting women getting intimate with squid. Most appreciated of all, though, is the booze.

Not one of the company has tasted sake before, but it turns out enemy liquor's just as good as any when it comes to getting drunk. The forest's too damp for a campfire, but the men end up sitting in a circle like scouts and passing the drink around, getting steadily louder and merrier as the night wears on. In the circumstances, it's pretty much inevitable that a singalong's going to break out, and of course Hillbilly's got to provide the accompaniment.

"Any requests?" he calls, looking around the group. Nobody answers. "Anyone?" He grins and takes a sip from his cup of sake. "Look, if you don't come up with something, I'll pick myself, and you might not like it." Still nothing.

"No?" Hillbilly snickers to himself, and then without warning, bursts into a startling falsetto. " _Follow the yellow brick road, follow the yellow brick road, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road!_ "

Some men laugh and some men swear, but some of the others join in, and when they get to the 'off to see the wizard' bit, Gunny Haney suddenly erupts with a bloodcurdling roar and jumps to his feet. He grabs Haldane's wrist and hauls him up, and it's all Hillbilly can do to keep playing and not collapse into giggles as the pair of them dance an ungainly jig around the clearing.

It's not a long song but he spins it out just to keep them dancing. He's always known Gunny's nuts but it's a novelty to see Haldane relaxed and laughing, surprisingly boyish with his helmet off and his guard down.

Hillbilly finally takes pity on them and finishes the song. Gunny lets go, letting out a loud whoop and going off to find his bottle again; Haldane staggers over and sits down next to Hillbilly, looking rather dazed.

"I think you guys just made my night," Hillbilly says cheerfully, looking between the two of them. Haldane blinks, running his hands through his hair as he tries to pull himself back together again.

"You're quite a dancer, Gunny," he pants. Gunny raises his bottle and beams.

"I fuckin' love that movie!"

 

*

 

You'd think people would've learned from the last war that there's never any point in hoping for it to be over by Christmas. They might've been winning their battles, but the Japanese are nothing if not tenacious, and the end's nowhere near in sight.

The twenty-fifth turns out to be a bright clear summer day, but there's a funny air of melancholy hanging about the place. The men lounge shirtless with paper hats on their heads, smoking cigarettes they'd been saving and passing around bottles of sun-warmed booze. Hillbilly dozes in his foxhole and dreams of home, and the presents he never got to buy. He's only been able to send apologies with his last letter, and a promise that when he returns, he will make up for every missed birthday and Christmas, no matter how much it costs. Right now, he thinks, they'll be sitting down around the table, candles lit and Ma bringing out a dinner they've been saving up for all year – well, except what with time zones being what they are, it might've already happened or else wouldn't take place for half a day yet. He could never remember right exactly what the difference was between here and there.

Later on when the heat's gone down from hellish to merely unbearable, they eat a meagre Christmas dinner of the same old bland rations mixed in with a few carefully hoarded treats shared out among friends. Hillbilly finishes before most of the others, too polite to accept offers of canned fruit and jelly on crackers from his squad, and goes to fetch out his guitar. Carols, at least, cost nothing.

" _O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie_ ," he starts, and he expects the men to join in, but instead they all go quiet and let him carry on alone, watching with a kind of reverence. He's no great singer and maybe a little off-key, but his voice carries well through the still, stagnant air. " _Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight._ "

When he finishes, some of the men actually applaud. He bows his head in modest acceptance, and jumps a little when a hand comes down on his shoulder.

"Sir?" he says. He hadn't even heard Haldane coming up behind him. Haldane smiles, and sits down next to him.

"That was beautiful," Haldane says. "In reward for your efforts, I've brought you a present."

"A present? Really? Aw, sir, there's no need, I -" Hillbilly feels guilty at having nothing to give him in return, and touched just to receive a gift at all – though admittedly, it's probably nothing special. Knowing Haldane, he probably got a present for everybody.

"Now, now, I'm not going to hear any protests. You've earned this," Haldane says, reaching into his top pocket and picking something out. He holds out his palm, bearing a small golden bar. Hillbilly's mouth falls open at the sight of it. Haldane smiles widely.

"Merry Christmas, lieutenant."

 

*

 

Hillbilly couldn't have been in the bathroom more than a couple of minutes, but when he came out he found that the rest of the company seemed to have moved along without him. There's no point going looking for them, not with so many bars in Melbourne to choose from, so he just shrugs it off and goes for another drink.

Waiting to get served, he ends up chatting with an Australian airman. Between the wide grin, the drawling accent, and the rakish tilt of his slouch hat, the guy has a definite air of the cowboy about him, and it's no surprise when the conversation turns to bragging. Hillbilly's not generally given to boasting, but with a few drinks inside him and the Aussie winding him up with clearly exaggerated tales of dogfighting prowess, Hillbilly finds himself spinning a few shaggy dog stories about the kind of thing he got up to on Guadalcanal. Then later on, the guy gets talking about how great he is with a banjo, and that is definitely something that can't go unchallenged.

"You think you're a good musician, you oughta see me with my guitar," he says. "I'm like the Pied Piper – all I gotta do is play, and the boys would follow me anywhere."

"Is that right?" the Aussie says. "I reckon we should have ourselves a little competition. You hang on there a sec." He wades through the crowds, to the snug where the band who'd been playing earlier are now sat sipping their pints. There's some kind of brief altercation and then the Aussie's back, brandishing an instrument in each hand.

"Here ya go, Yank," he says, presenting Hillbilly with a guitar. It's not as good as _her_ – the weight and feel's all wrong, and the strings are shiny nylon rather than old catgut, but it'll do for the present.

"One song each," the Aussie says, slinging the banjo's strap across his shoulders, "and we'll let these good people here decide who's best." The crowd's a roughly equal mix of locals and servicemen, and favouritism alone won't tip the balance; skill will have to prevail.

The Aussie starts to play, and Hillbilly can't help but grin at how predictable his choice of tune is. He must have heard Waltzing Matilda a hundred times since they landed here – enough times that he can play it by ear, at any rate. Instead of waiting for his rival to finish, he starts playing along, weaving notes in and out of the tune, adding his voice in harmony. Between verses, the Aussie smirks and speeds up his pace, and Hillbilly follows with ease. Their playing gets faster and more complex, fingers flying over strings and music interweaving without a single bum note; when the Aussie diverges from the tune and starts up with an impromptu breakdown, Hillbilly just laughs and adds on to the improvisation, adding his own flourishes and daring the other to keep up.

People stop what they're doing and turn to watch them, and the hubbub of the bar dies down to almost nothing.

Their playing reaches a crescendo, and as they reach what feels like a natural break-off point, Hillbilly stands up and yells out,

"All together now!"

And as one, every man and woman in that bar joins in, roaring out Waltzing Matilda with deafening gusto. People thump the tables and stamp their feet on the ground. The two of them sing one more chorus, and then another for old time's sake, until Hillbilly and the Aussie finish together on a final triumphant chord.

There's a burst of applause. Somebody whistles. And then, just as suddenly as it had all started, everybody turns back to their drinks and things continue exactly as they had done before.

The Aussie grins and slaps Hillbilly on the back.

"I wasn't expecting that!" he says. "We're calling that a draw, then?"

Hillbilly smiles. "I think so, but if you ever come West Virginia way and want a rematch, I'd be happy to oblige."

"I'm holding you to that, mate. Buy you a drink?"

"Sure!"

The Aussie slings a companionable arm around Hillbilly's shoulder and they turn to the bar to get much-needed refreshment. As they do, Hillbilly catches something out of the corner of his eye – Haldane, standing in the doorway. He must have come back to find him, and the expression on his face at seeing Hillbilly all chummy with a stranger seems disapproving – or maybe disappointed, hard to tell. Hillbilly opens his mouth to call to him, but before he can say anything, Haldane turns and leaves.

Hillbilly doesn't know why he feels so guilty.

 

*

 

It's cold and raining – apparently that _is_ possible in Australia – and Hillbilly's head is spinning a little from the beer he's had. After several months in Melbourne, he won't say he's bored, or ungrateful for this respite from fighting, but he does feel a little lonely. The company run wild every night, and he just can't keep up with them. He likes a drink and dance as much as any other man, but he's not one of nature's hellraisers.

He tilts back his head to feel the soft drizzle on his face, opening his mouth to catch it on his tongue like a small child seeing his first snow. He's walking back to the cricket stadium to see if he can get to sleep before all the rest of them come staggering back and wake him up again, when he suddenly hears a wavering voice.

" _My girl, my girl, don't lie to me, tell me where did you sleep last night. In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever shine -_ "

And automatically, Hillbilly sings back,

" _I would shiver the whole night through._ "

He rounds the corner, and there's the source of the voice – Captain Haldane, their newly minted CO, looking a little worse for wear.

"Hillbilly!" Haldane says, opening his arms wide. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Where have you -" Hillbilly starts to ask, but he suddenly finds himself captured in a bear hug. Wow, the skipper really is drunk. He hasn't got much choice but to hug back, and if forced to at gunpoint, he'd admit he doesn't exactly mind.

"Where have you been?" he asks, finally pulling back.

"Oh, y'know, here and there. Wherever the men take me," Haldane says, and laughs. "I was trying to find my way back, but I think I got lost."

"Actually, I think you're on the right path. I was heading back too," Hillbilly says. "C'mon, sir, I'll see you home."

"Thanks," Haldane says, leaning hard against Hillbilly for support. "Whatever would I do without my best lieutenant to show me the way?"

Hillbilly tries not to too obviously glow with pride. Haldane's clearly just one of those guys who gets over-sentimental when drunk; it always is the big guys, come to think of it. He decides to change the subject.

"That song you were singing, sir, I didn't know you knew that one," he said. Haldane smiles.

"Only because I've heard you sing it," he said. "In The Pines, isn't it?"

"It's an old song, with a lot of names," Hillbilly says, "But yeah, some people call it In The Pines."

Haldane nods. "You've got a real way with music."

"I come from a musical family," Hillbilly says, feeling rather embarrassed by all this attention, all too conscious of the weight of Haldane's body against his. "After my Pa had his accident, he took up playing the piano. Gives lessons to some of the local kids to earn a bit of extra money. And my Ma, she sings like a nightingale – we're all in the church choir, but she's definitely the best. I suppose it's just in my blood."

"Then you're a lucky man," Haldane says. "I wish I had a talent like that."

"Aw, Skipper," Hillbilly says. He turns his head away so Haldane can't see how ridiculously flattered he looks right now. "Everybody's got talents. Myself, I always wished I were better at sports."

"Ah, but you can't rally the troops with football," Haldane says. They're at the entrance to the stadium now. Hillbilly gives the password and the guard lets them through, shooting them an amused look.

"You can," Hillbilly says. "If we cleared the space and the men didn't mind using a coconut for a ball."

"That's not the same," Haldane says. "Anyway, the last thing the men need is more violence." They make their way up the steps, Hillbilly carefully holding on to Haldane's waist to prevent him from stumbling.

"Your playing soothes people," Haldane says, stopping by an empty cot. "It gives people hope. I love football, but it's not the same thing at all."

"Maybe so, sir," Hillbilly says, sitting down on the cot just up the step from him. "But now, I think it's time for bed. Best not disturb the others."

Haldane nods, and starts to unlace his boots. He loses his balance and slips off the cot, clapping his hands over his mouth so as not to wake people with his giggling. Hillbilly gets up and offers him a hand, then helps him with the laces and the buttons of his shirt.

Haldane's capable of getting into the cot itself without any difficulty, but since he's here, Hillbilly pulls the sheets up over him and helps him settle in.

"There you go, Skipper," he says.

Haldane smiles at him.

"What, no goodnight kiss?"

Hillbilly looks around them, checking nobody's watching. He wouldn't do it if Haldane weren't drunk and he wasn't somewhat tipsy himself, but as they both are, he bends down and quickly presses a dry, chaste kiss to Haldane's forehead.

"Good night, Hillbilly," Haldane says, closing his eyes with the expression of supreme contentment that only the thoroughly inebriated can wear.

Hillbilly turns away, glad the low light hides the fact that he's blushing something fierce.

"Good night, sir."

 

*

 

Hillbilly strolls through the camp, guitar strap slung around his neck, weaving through the little village of ramshackle tents. He pauses in his playing to lift up the flap of the nearest and check on its inhabitants.

"Evening, boys," he says to them.

"Evening, sir," they chorus back.

"How y'all getting along?" he asks, coming in and sitting on the edge of one of the cots. He's answered largely with noncommittal grunts, which is fair enough. For most of them this is the first chance to rest they've had for the past few days, and these boys in particular have every right to be exhausted. Hillbilly starts picking at his guitar.

" _When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound and time shall be no more -_ "

He's another line in when Burgin suddenly says,

"Is it just me, sir, or have you been singing a lot about the afterlife recently?"

Hillbilly stops, frowning, then looks down at the guitar as if she has the answers. He'd not thought about it, but now Burgie points it out, his choice of tunes has taken a particular turn for the religious of late.

"I can sing something else if it's a problem," he says. He can understand if Burgin would rather not dwell on death. The corpses of the men who'd been here before were one of the first things they'd encountered on Cape Gloucester, and while the Japanese were staying quiet, Hillbilly had overseen a gravedigging shift. It might be less hurried, but it was barely more pleasant than combat: the black earth gave way easily under their spades, but just as easily slipped back, and the bodies fell apart as soon as looked at. Decomposition happens fast in this climate, and it's chilling to think how fast your identity can be stolen from you by death. When the ships come back to take these men home, the only way to tell them apart will be by their tags.

Hillbilly tries not to think about things like that, himself, but he must have accidentally been giving things away with the songs he's been singing this evening. Funny thing. Everybody says heaven is such a wonderful place, but he's never met anyone in any hurry to get there.

"I ain't got a problem," Shelton drawls lazily. Hillbilly's not surprised. Shelton – Snafu, he hears the men have started calling him – seems steeped in death, more ghoul than man at times. The way things are going, the company could do with more Snafus, even if Hillbilly's not sure he'd want to command them.

"He wasn't asking you," Burgin says, rolling his eyes. "But I don't mind, either. You sing what you want to sing, sir."

The tentflap rustles.

"Ah, there you all are," Haldane says as he strolls in.

"Evening, skipper," comes the chorus, and this time Hillbilly joins in. Haldane smiles round at them all.

"Just brought some extra rations for our gravediggers," he says. It's nothing much, just dry old crackers, but the thought is appreciated. Burgin snaffles them up; Shelton tucks them away in his pocket for later.

Hillbilly's almost expecting some himself, but instead Haldane points at him.

"I've got a job for you," he says, gesturing for Hillbilly to get up. "First Platoon's tent's sunk into the mud and they need some help pulling it all out again."

"No rest for the wicked," Hillbilly sighs as he follows Haldane out, starting to strum his guitar again.

" _Let us labour for the Master from the dawn 'til setting sun, let us talk of all his wondrous love and care; then when life is over and our work on earth is done, when the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there._ "

 

*

 

Any minute now, Hillbilly thinks, the weight of the water upon it is gonna tear the tent's seams and send the deluge crashing down upon him. The roof's bulging and water's seeping through the fabric, dripping onto the soil. Hillbilly's hair is plastered to his head and drops of water are sliding down the back of his neck; his toes slither in his rotting boots, his socks long since departed.

By some miracle, his guitar hasn't succumbed to the wet decay that's taking everything else. He keeps her wrapped in paper and locked inside a trunk, and if the men want to hear him play, they'll have to come under cover. More often than not, then, he plays for himself.

" _All my troubles will be over when I lay my burden down_ ," he sings, numb fingers skidding on the strings. He's sore all over, ulcers on his feet making him limp when he walks and cuss when he runs, and he wishes he could just say to someone that he's getting sick and tired of this fucking island and this whole fucking war.

He plays, eyes closed, the drumming of the rain drowning out any sound of approaching footsteps.

"Are you alright?" Haldane says.

Hillbilly stops and looks up to see the skipper stood before him. He's soaked through, clothes clinging to his body. There's a tear in the knee of his pants and his forearms are caked in mud.

"I'm okay," Hillbilly lies. "What happened to you?"

"I slipped," Haldane says, going to find a cloth to wipe himself off with. "Running to get here and slipped in the mud. I nearly thought it had me – what a way to go, huh?"

"Don't even joke about it," Hillbilly says raggedly. He takes a deep breath and tries to appear more upbeat. "I mean, I'd probably have to write home to your parents, and how would I make that sound heroic? 'Dear Mr and Mrs Haldane, we regret to inform you your son has been killed in action. He gave his life in a noble struggle with a puddle.'"

Haldane laughs and tosses the cloth aside before matter-of-factly removing his sodden shirt and wringing it out.

"I guess this is why they call it New Britain," he says, the water streaming over his hands onto the ground. "Good god, you could fill a bathtub with the water in this."

"Maybe we can do some kind of humanitarian effort, mail our shirts out to the boys in North Africa," Hillbilly says. "They're longing for water, and here we are all sick to death of it."

Haldane sits down beside him. Without thinking, too tired to bother resisting it, Hillbilly leans his weight against him. His head rests against Haldane's bare, slippery shoulder. Haldane ruffles Hillbilly's hair, sending drops of water flying out.

"Well, here's something to lift your spirits," he says. "I've got word from the brass that we're shipping out tomorrow."

Hillbilly smiles, lips dragging across Haldane's skin, too tired even to lift his head.

"And not a day too soon," he murmurs.

 

*

 

It's clear blue skies all the way to Pavuvu, and Hillbilly's never been gladder to see the sun. It's not Melbourne, but it's better than any other Pacific island they've been on so far. There's clean uniforms and hot chow, a bed for every man and medics on standby, time to relax and not worry about the enemy behind every tree or all your possessions decaying into slime.

Haldane's put Hillbilly on soft drinks detail, of all things; the hardest work he has to do right now is sign off forms and fend off rival companies trying to swipe more than their allotted share. For the first time in quite a while, he's actually enjoying himself. He's had a good night of sleep and a filling breakfast, and he's spent the day greeting new arrivals and passing out welcome refreshment to the guys scrubbing cans and digging latrines. It's late now, and he has a little time for a break.

He sweeps into the skipper's tent in the guise of a raggedy waiter, a greasy rag draped over his arm and an icy-cold bottle of cola balanced delicately on an oilcan lid.

"Your Coca-Cola, sir," he says, careful not to spill it as he bows in Haldane's direction. Haldane hadn't heard him and looks bemused at first, then breaks out into delighted laughter when he sees Hillbilly's get-up.

"Much appreciated, garçon," he says, daintily taking the bottle by the neck. "Why not have one for yourself?"

"Already did on my way round," Hillbilly says, putting the rag and plate down and lying back on Haldane's cot. They both have separate tents, but they might as well not have for the amount of time they spend in each other's; there's some unspoken agreement now that what's Hillbilly's is Haldane's, and vice versa.

"Not working you too hard, am I?" Haldane says, chuckling at Hillbilly's ungainly sprawl. Hillbilly lifts his head, about to make some retort, but entirely forgets what he wants to say when he sees Haldane pick up the bottle. He watches in a vague daze as Haldane gulps it down, lips sliding around the cool rim of the glass, a drop of cola escaping and sliding down his clean-shaven cheek before dripping off his chin.

Haldane notices him staring when he puts the bottle down, and Hillbilly hastily turns away. He leans over the side of the cot to find his guitar, just where he'd left it from last evening, happy to find himself some other form of distraction. Haldane turns back to his paperwork as Hillbilly stretches out on his back and starts to play.

" _Drinking rum and Coca-Cola, go down Point Koomahnah, both mother and daughter, working for the Yankee dollar -_ "

Haldane turns and throws a pencil at Hillbilly's head, which Hillbilly ducks, laughing.

"You know that song's about prostitution, right?" Haldane asks, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, but the Andrews Sisters don't, bless 'em," Hillbilly replies. He closes his eyes and starts to play again, and thinks to himself that he can't remember the last time he's felt so at peace.

 

*

 

It's a quiet still evening, no noise but for the chirp of crickets and the distant mutter of the movie the rest of the men have gathered to watch. Hillbilly would rather take the time to sit alone in his tent and play.

This song has no words or name. He doesn't write his own songs, as a rule, but sometimes a melody gets in his head and won't let go until it's been tamed and structured and made into something fuller. There's a few tunes he's composed that way, but he doesn't play them for others. It's the words that are the problem, in that he's no good with them. Some people know the English language like he knows his scales, and arrange words so they sound as beautiful to the ear as notes do, but that particular talent passed Hillbilly right by.

And even if he could put words to this tune, he wouldn't dare sing them. This is a song that says the things the law forbids him from expressing in more traditional ways. It started off as just a short sequence of notes and over the past few days he's honed it into a ballad, a gentle and plaintive song that speaks of longing and uncertainty, and an attachment so powerful it often overwhelms him.

As if his playing has the power to call its subject to him, Haldane appears at the tent's entrance, a familiar silhouette in the moonlight. Hillbilly looks up and their eyes meet; he expects a casual greeting, but Haldane just stares. Heart suddenly racing, Hillbilly keeps on playing – Haldane watches his fingers, and Hillbilly watches him.

It's not the best song in the world. It could still do with some tweaking, and the strings have slipped out of tune, but Hillbilly can't stop. If he stops, the spell's going to be broken and he doesn't know what happens then.

Moving slowly, as if in a trance, Haldane walks towards him. The song ends abruptly as Haldane's hand touches Hillbilly's, stopping the strings. Hillbilly's heart stops with them, breath catching in his throat.

He raises his other hand and lays it carefully on the side of Haldane's neck, feeling the pulse fluttering under his skin.

"This is crazy," he breathes, leaning in despite himself.

"I know," Haldane agrees, responding in kind. Their noses brush against each other. Hillbilly can feel Haldane's breath against his mouth. "I don't care."

Hillbilly's lips curve into a slight smile.

"Neither do I," he says.

Their mouths come together, and there it is, that same leap in his heart he felt when he first took hold of his guitar, the same feeling of pure and honest elation. The guitar herself slides off his lap and lands with a soft thud in the sand as Hillbilly loops his arms around Haldane's neck and pulls him down on to the cot.

 

Hillbilly leaves the guitar behind on Pavuvu. He hates having to do it, but she's wearing out and there's no repair shops here, nor any place to safely keep her in the coral deserts of Peleliu. It's a sad goodbye, and he can't say he doesn't choke up a little, but it's not as bad as it might have been. He has something – somebody – else to look after, and look after him. He's got his man, and he's got his boys, and with that, nothing can touch him.


End file.
